The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 5

I knew she couldn't see much with just binoculars and she was probably just scanning the water for people in boats. But she'd find out I made a 911 call and I was starting to feel worried about how that would look. I knew I couldn't do much about that so I went ahead and opened the shop as usual, keeping the radio on a local station to monitor the news.

The first report didn't have much, except that another person had been killed. He was identified only as a male employee of Bigfoot's, a beach bar and boat rental place where the bomb went off. Bigfoot's is one of those beach bars with giant outdoor speakers blasting party music while buff young people play volleyball wearing swimsuits not much bigger than their sunglasses. It's like being in a beer commercial.

It might seem strange that a place that sells alcohol would also rent high-powered motorboats, but there are several businesses like that along the peninsula. They rent those little jet-ski boats that are like motorcycles on the water.

Apparently the latest bomb was under one of the jet-boats parked on the beach outside of Bigfoot's. It could be the bomb was set to go off when it was disturbed and the employee jostled it while getting the rental boats all ready for the day. Or maybe it was on a timer and he was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I ended up having a pretty busy morning at the shop, maybe because I'd been closed for a while. I had made a special sale bin for some of the books which had been too damaged to properly repair. I put up a sign saying "Slightly Bomb-Damaged - 50% off" and sold almost all of them to tourists by noon. I guess they made good souvenirs.

That's about when Det. McCain called and asked me to come in for another interview. Not a good sign. If she just had a few follow-up questions she'd have asked on the phone.

"Couldn't we just do that on the phone?" I asked.

"If you don't mind it'd be best if we could have you come in, Mr. Durham," she said. "We find people tend to remember more in a face-to-face talk than on the phone. What we're doing is going through all the initial interviews again, looking for any additional information that might have come into your mind -- things that might not seem important, but that maybe would help now that we have more incidents to compare."

That was, of course, bullshit -- cop doubletalk for "we'd like you to deliver yourself for an interrogation voluntarily before it occurs to you that maybe you ought to have a lawyer."

But I played along for the time being and agreed to come in later that afternoon.

About 1 p.m. I decided to go next door for a bite at the Canary Cafe. My day had started strong, but now there was no one in the shop. As word of the latest bombing spread the tourists started talking about going home early.

Inside the restaurant the crowd was light also, but at least Benita and Angela had a few customers. As I walked among the tables toward the counter I heard snippets of conversation and it was clear most of these folks were already packed.

I sat at the counter at my usual stool. I could see Benita and Andy in the kitchen and Angela was at the cash register ringing up a takeout order for a couple of rumpled looking guys. She wore the crisp yellow uniform that looked so fantastic on her and so ordinary on her sister.

And then I realized one of the "customers" was writing in a pocket notebook -- an out-of-town reporter. The beach was probably crawling with them. The other guy was a photographer and as he held up his camera to photograph Angela I turned my back and reached for a menu. I didn't really need a menu -- I know everything they serve -- but the last thing I wanted was to have my face show up in the background in some national wire photo. The strobe flashed over my shoulder four times and then stopped, and I heard Angela brightly calling goodbye to them as they left.

I turned to see their backs departing and Angela sauntering toward me with a grin on her face. "I just got interviewed by USA Today," she said, tossing her head dramatically.

"Well aren't you the media star."

"Actually they mostly just wanted directions and cheeseburgers." She poured me a cup of coffee. "You want a ham and cheese on rye I assume?"

That's what I usually get, but I didn't want to be boring. "Chicken salad on wheat," I said.

"You don't really want that," she laughed.

"Of course I do," I insisted. "I want chicken salad on wheat. With pepper jack cheese. And a tomato pickle."

"You are a wildly unpredictable man, Jack Durham," she said, fanning herself with her pad. "Makes a girl simply weak in the knees." She turned away and tended to other customers and I drank my coffee and skimmed the Sports section which someone had left on the counter. Now and then I allowed myself to watch Angela work, enjoying her graceful movements, so efficient and perfectly balanced at all times.

A few minutes later I noticed Andy across the room carrying a tub of dirty dishes on the way to the kitchen. I waved at him but he didn't seem to notice. He looked distraught.

"Angela, what's wrong with Andy," I said when she came by again.

"Oh the poor thing. He knew that lady who was killed. She's one of his lawn mowing customers and he didn't realize she was the one who was killed until he was here working and saw her picture in the paper. This whole thing is just so terrible. I can't believe someone is doing this. Why? What's the point?"

I shook my head. "When they catch whoever is doing this, it still won't make any sense. It never does. Like John Hinckley shooting Reagan so a movie star will at least know his name, or the guy who shot John Lennon because he was such a 'big fan'. Don't expect it to make sense."

My chicken salad was ready and Angela set it in front of me. I kind of wished it was ham and cheese.

"Papa called today," she said.

"Oh?"

"Papa veddy CON-cerned," she said, falling into the Jamaican accent she always used when talking of her parents. "Papa want his girls to come home to Cleeve-lahnd."

"Oh?"

"Yep," she said, back to her normal voice.

"He wants you to just drop everything and go home. And you're how old?"

"I beg your pardon." She glared at me with a look that nearly knocked me off the barstool. The supposed mystery of Angela's age was a forbidden topic, but I knew from reading about her in the Brayton Journal that she was close to 40 and the oldest active dancer in the company, yet she was still the lead dancer and continued to win acclaim for her grace and technical precision.

I stared back at those fiery hazel eyes as long as I could take it, but found myself squinting as if into an intense flame. "I just meant you're over 21," I finally said, giving in.

She broke off the stare and looked around the half-empty restaurant. "He thinks we should just close down the restaurant and go stay with him and Mama until they catch the bomber."

The crowd was not only light, but those who remained looked like refugees nervously waiting for the U.N. buses to arrive. I couldn't blame them, and for that matter I suddenly liked the idea of Angela being safely ensconced in a wealthy Cleveland suburb for a few weeks. "Well ... it might not be such a bad idea," I said. "Business is probably going to dry up for a while anyway."

"Don't you dare take his side," she ˇsaid, slapping me lightly on the hand.

I laughed. "Angela, you can stay or leave -- it's up to you."

She smiled. "You haven't met my father."

After lunch I started back to the bookstore, but as I left the restaurant I saw two guys standing outside my door ringing the bell. It was the reporter and photographer I'd seen talking to Angela. They were probably interviewing everyone associated with the bombings and I was just one of the people on the list. I figured they wouldn't recognize me so I walked right by them, past my front door with the "back in 10 minutes" sign. I turned the corner around my place and went around back where my motorcycle was parked under a car port. It was going to be longer than ten minutes.

I figured now was as good a time as any to keep my date with McCain. I tied my hair back and straddled the bike, kicking it to life on the first try. A minute later I was heading down North Beach Road toward Brayton.

In between is Port Marin State University. Because of the school's initials a popular t-shirt says "PMS. U?" Though officially co-ed for 20 years, it was originally a women's college and women still dominate, both in numbers and political philosophy. I get the school newspaper and there always seems to be some guy in hot water over a gender offense. A month ago a male student faced a sexual harassment expulsion because he was staring too obviously at women who were expressing Topfree Liberation. And most recently there is a petition drive to oust one of the only male professors for referring to his female students as "girls."

I slowly cruised through town. The speed limit is 25, and you'll get a ticket for 29. South of Port Marin there's a nice little stretch through marshlands where development is impossible, and then you get into the far northern suburbs of Brayton.

On the east side of the highway, between the road and the Bay, are some of the richest homes in the area -- most of them built in the 1920s by wealthy industrialists back when Brayton was still a booming port city and a steel town. But the steelworkers and longshoremen are long since out of work and the closer you get to the city proper the dingier it gets -- decrepit brownfields of brick factories and steel plants whose tiny windows have mostly been broken by rock-throwing boys.

The scenery improves a little when you hit downtown. The Waterfront District is a busy little strip of shops and lunchtime restaurants along the old piers downtown. It's not that much, really, and seems to have a tenuous hold on solvency but it's the keystone of the city's dogged revitalization efforts.

South of the Waterfront District is a little two-block stretch of arts organizations. The Athena Theatre and the Brayton Modern Dance Company are the anchors and they are surrounded by a few little coffee houses, bookstores and artsy gift shops. Angela dances at BMDC during the regular season, mostly traveling to other cities where they seem to be better appreciated than at home.

The Lake County Sheriff's office is a limestone fortress built in the 1930s. It has huge wooden doors and tile floors that echo when you walk through the cavernous main room to the long counter made of some dark wood like mahogany or cherry. Behind the counter sits a deputy sheriff who is the equivalent of a city police department's house Sargent.

I told him I was here to see McCain and he picked up the phone and called upstairs. A few minutes later I was escorted into a drab room with a plain table and two chairs. Along one wall was a mirror. An observation room. The deputy asked if I wanted a beverage; I said no. Just then the door opened and in walked McCain and Arkin. The deputy stepped back out.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr Durham," McCain began. "Would you like a soda or coffee or something?" She was wearing another 1940s-style man's suit. This one was pale green with vertical stripes. The pants were pleated and had cuffs. She wore a white shirt, opened at the collar, a gold chain around her neck.

"No thanks, I'm fine," I said. "So what can I do for you?"

McCain gestured for me to sit and I did. She began her spiel. "We've found that after a few days people sometimes remember more, so if you don't mind I'd like to ask you some questions again about the recent incidents at your establishment and nearby."

I said okay and she went through it all again. I gave honest answers, adding a few bits and pieces I had thought of since.

After a long pause she said, "and what did you see this morning?"

I wasn't surprised by the question because I knew all 911 calls are IDed to the source. So I just told her all I'd seen, totally straight, and I hoped that's as far as it would go.

"You're a very observant person, Mr. Durham," McCain said finally. "You saw that explosion from way across the bay and got right on the phone to help us out. We should thank you."

"Um, somehow it doesn't sound like that's what you're doing."

Arkin, who had been hulking in the background, made a little snorting sound, a laugh I guess. "You like being the hero, Durham? Coming to the rescue and all that?"

McCain gave him a look. I could tell she didn't like him either. "You have to understand," she said. "In police work we have to consider all possible scenarios, and that includes taking a look at a number of ... theoretical possibilities."

"So that means what? That I'm a suspect?"

"Not any more than anyone else is right now. It's just standard police procedure to take a good look at everyone who was close to the situation; to look at every possibility we can think of. Now you, for example, you were very close to two of the bombings--"

"One of which was on my property. It was a little hard to avoid."

Arkin jumped in again, "How'd you do on the insurance claim, Durham? Make a little money there?"

This time McCain ignored him. So did I.

"Believe it or not, Mr. Durham," she went on, "sometimes people do bomb their own homes in an effort to divert suspicion. And sometimes people set bombs nearby so they can play the hero, diffusing it or helping the injured or whatever. We do see that happen, so it's our responsibility to consider it in all cases. And then there's your background. It looks pretty sketchy. You're 37 years old and you have almost no credit history."

"I like to pay cash."

"And we find no drivers license records on you until two years ago."

"I'm a New Yorker " I said. "We don't drive. You know how in the movies they always show us hailing cabs and taking the subway? We really do that."

McCain sighed. "Let me summarize. First a bomb goes off at your place of business. Property damage -- for which you have insurance -- but no serious injuries. Then another bomb goes off down the beach. You happen to be around and provide first aid. Lots of people we interviewed praised your efforts that day. Next, a bomb goes off way over on the other side of the bay and it just so happens you're out on your deck and you notice it. No one else on your side of the bay called it in, but you did -- once again being helpful to law enforcement in the investigation of a terrible crime.

"Then there's your injury. Here's a guy with two fingers missing. Now this could be explained in lots of ways, including the machinery accident you mentioned, but then again it's possible you lost those fingers on the bomb-maker's learning curve. It's our job to wonder about things like that. We're probably way off base so maybe you can fill in some blanks for us. Then we can cross you off the list of maybes and go on to everyone else."

I had, of course, already decided that if the interrogation got to this point I'd just tell them who I was and let them verify it. I had no intention wasting the time of the people investigating these bombings by making them spend it on me. I was ready to tell at that moment, but I hoped to keep to a minimum the number of people I'd have to tell. Something about the place just didn't feel right. Arkin in particular I didn't trust, and I had no idea who was monitoring the interview.

So instead of coming straight out with it I said, "what do you want to know?"

"Two things for starters," she said. "First we want to verify the basic facts of your background -- where you've worked for the past decade and so on -- and secondly it would help a lot if we could verify the circumstances of your accident. I assume you were treated at a hospital?"

"Yes I was," I said, acting annoyed. "I can tell you exactly what you need to know." And then to Arkin I added, "guess I'll take that soda now," consigning him to be the waiter. He snorted again and shuffled out.

We still weren't exactly alone. There was an observation window, mirrored on our side, and I couldn't tell if we were being videotaped.

I waited until we had eye contact again. Then I made sure she caught my expression. Out loud I said, "Maybe under the circumstances I ought to have a lawyer. I assume I'm free to go if I want?"

She gave me a noncommittal stare. "You aren't under arrest, Mr Durham. You are free to go if you choose.

"I so choose," I said, but gestured with my eyes only toward the window overlooking the parking lot.

I walked out, not looking back. Outside I took my time fiddling with the bike and after a few minutes McCain came walking up to me.

"This better be good," she said.

"Thanks for coming out," I said. "Look, I apologize for jerking you around. I don't want to get in the way of your investigation or in any way waste your time. So here it is: My name used to be John Dirkson and I was a New York City police detective. I went into the witness protection program after testifying against the Fugard Family two years ago. You can verify this with the Justice Department and with the New York City Police Commissioner's office. But I'd appreciate it if you could keep it as confidential as you can."

She said nothing for a moment and stood there regarding me with her arms crossed in front of her. And then she said, "well that's not an alibi I hear every day."

"I don't expect you to believe it without checking it out."

"Oh I'll check it out," she said. "But even if there's a file on John Dirkson I'll still need to be sure that's you."

I took off my sunglasses and wiped the lenses clean on my shirt. Then I pressed my thumbs on the front of each lens. "Here," I said, handing them to her. "I'll come in for a full set of prints if you want, but this ought to be enough to identify me."

She took the glasses by the earpiece and held them carefully. "If this is all true," she said, "and leaving aside for the moment that being an ex-cop doesn't automatically clear you of scrutiny -- why didn't you just tell me inside. Don't you trust fellow cops to keep your secret?"

I kicked the motorcycle and it started up. "Read my file," I said, and pulled away, blasting up the road at something well above the posted speed limit.